They say everybody’s special.
Everyone is different.
A beacon shining bright through the depths of mist in a cold turbid ocean.
They probably didn’t mean in the way that people fall apart.
Not emotionally, though I’ve seen plenty of that, too. No. In the way that people don’t like to think about.
A hominid body is a pretty amazing thing. All those organs and bones and the various nervous systems that work antagonistically and synergicically with everything else that makes up a person.
It’s interesting that those pivotal parts of all those individuals that lie suspended inside every one of those sparkling white snowflakes, all so different and unique in their own special way,
Rot the same.
Sure there are basic timing differences: will it be this week or next when the kidney starts spewing purtrid garbage; will the gallbladder go before or after the heart, etc., but ultimately we all came from the same compost heap. And we’ll all go back to the same dirt pile that the bible says we all grew out of, like flowers, flourishing.
Its my own personal opinion, but I think it’s pretty gaudy of the elmisephtiphyte population to compare themselves to something as fragile and beautiful as a flower. We’re more like weeds, infesting the planet with our hideous crab grass and stinging nettles.
But that’s besides the point.
We spend every waking second buying things that are suppose to emulate who we really are, deep inside those suspended hunks of meat that pump blood and feces from birth to death in all of us. We travel to every corner and crevice of the planet with the hopes of finding a reason for our being here. Finding nothing other than lies we tell to appease ourselves of the pointlessness that is our existence.
We feel chemical alterations in our brains that ricochet throughout the rest of our physical selves and we perceive those changes that our nervous system so wickedly contrived to be feelings.
Grey area that turn to rainbows when the sun hits them just so.
Those sensations course through our veins making our hearts beat faster and our eyes have a glimmer that nobody would ever be able to fake, Unless they were a hybrid, but that would be because of our neural overgrowth.
Amygdalas and frontal lobes are intriguing; those parts that let us experience that deep ‘emotional connection’ we call love are the same places that distort reality enough to make us psychopaths.
Hybrids just have more of them both. I guess, theoretically that means we can feel more affection, pain, harmony and hatred than any normal being.
But I highly doubt that is the case.
Breathe in Breathe out Breathe in Breathe out
Those rhythmic gestures that prove to us we’re alive.
That give us the air in our lungs to bring blood to our brains to make us feel as though we’re worth something. When, in reality, those movements are just movements.
And the air is just air. Our brains are just mangled heaps of electricity and those sensations we swear to God are feelings, are nothing more than the side effect of a bored-as-shit nervous system.
And us hybrids understand we really lucked out when the world collapsed because we didn’t have to feel that stuff anymore.
We finally had the ability to turn off the useless aspects of being alive to focus on more important things. Well…some of us anyway. Most of us just gave into the basic desires of carnivores and scavengers and decided to become something out of a Resident Evil movie. But the select few, the best of the best (myself included) focused on growth of our knowledge. That led me down a pretty unfortunate path, since nobody is entirely above their hominid derivations, and I ended up learning all kinds of fancy things only to use them for the purpose of destruction. It was fun and it passed the time and made me feel invincible, so why not? I developed a real knack for ruining women.
I knew a girl, just when the chemicals were beginning to trigger an effect on me, and before I completely changed, I was hominid and we were feeling those crazy hormones that people call love. I don’t remember the way that felt all that well anymore, since it’s been so long my brains been different, but I remember doing the stupidest things all for this girl. She did the same sort of things for me. Around the time of this girl’s existence, I started losing my ability to see color.
I knew I was turning into some kind of monster like the ones they reported on the news every night. But even though my brain was evolving into whatever it is today, I’m sure my life was beautiful. I would imagine especially so when I saw more than black and whites. But change happens and I lost the ability to feel guilt and conscience. Eventually that girl left me, or maybe I killed her.
That seems a lot more likely.
When the changes first began, I had no idea what was happening. My memory would flash in and out. I tried my best to fight the blackouts, but it was like tugging on a rope attached to a five hundred pound anchor at the bottom of the ocean; a useless waste of energy.
During those blackouts when my mind was draining colors and the concept of beautiful things out like a leaky bathtub faucet, I remember things got weird. I know as much as I do about killing people because of the flutter of memories around the early months of my conversion.
There’s a million ways to kill a person, but everyone rots the same. There’s a comfort to that, since in a way one day I won’t be any different than the next Joe Blow buried down the street.
But then, maybe not.
There haven’t really been all that many studies on the decomposition of a hybrid.
Maybe those chemicals are embalming, who knows.
The thought isn’t so comforting after all.
Bodies decompose faster in dirt than they do on concrete.
Wild beasts prefer the taste of soft facial and hand flesh over all others on the buffet. Interestingly, BogMen is a real concept: those who are dunked in bog and muck will remain virtually perfectly preserved Like an insect in a dollop of amber. Like a wooly mammoth in a tar pit.
Why do I know all of this?
The need to learn and know everything about everyone.
Maggots prefer wound-holes over natural orifices.
A week before I met Lilli, there was a girl. I buried her in her backyard. I left a pylon on top of the mound so that people could find her, because I was growing tired of hominids forgetting the obviously recognizable people that their brains lied about, saying that they mattered.
I wanted someone to find her. To mourn for her. To dust off her remains and let her sleep in comfort and peace. Such a weird thought for a hybrid. The ground I buried her in was frozen; winter was approaching. So I didn’t bury her deeply since I have not the enthusiasm for burying bones like a dog and the sky was growing dim. I wanted to be on my way to Constantinopole. I have no idea why. Just to clarify, I’ve never had a brother.
Well, I did once when color-blindness wasn’t a personal characteristic.
But he disappeared too, after one of the many blackouts, similarly to my pretty lover of whose name I simply cannot remember for the life of me. Ha ha. Good one, Orion. Turns out that girl I buried not long before meeting Lilli, well, she wasn’t dead. Apparently she had taken to hovering around gas stations waiting for an opportunity to go berserk at my passing company as we made our way to Imagini. What are the odds! There was nobody around when she attacked the car, though. So sad to think that she clawed her way back from the brink of decomposition only to be just as alone and forgotten about as she was the day I buried her. I tried. Don’t ever say I didn’t try.
The first time that I saw color was at Imagini.
Everything was so bright! It was unbearable, so we left. In a bit of a mangled array but we abandoned the perfect world Lilli had dreamed of for what felt like months because it made me… upset… I guess is the word. And not ‘someone’s-catching-on-that-I’m-a-monster-Ibetter-act-like-i-have-feelings’ upset, Real upset. Hominid upset. My nervous system pushed and pulled at my cardiovascular system and my blood pressure rose (I didn’t even know my body still had blood!) and my eyes were fuzzy and my voice grew shrill like a stupid sissy girl at the sight of a rat. Lilli was still divininated from Imagini. And when I woke up from a fitful sleep in some motel bed located wherever we had been staying, hidden away from the village of black shadow people, Lilli had dyed her hair. I knew she had bought dye a million years ago. Why the hell would I have gave a shit about some aethsetic ameliorating female pseudopurchase?
Apparently I should have destroyed it when I had first been informed of it’s existence.
Lilli’s hair was blond. Like the hair of the girl I loved before I grew into this…this… demon that I’ve been longer than my memory is comfortable thinking about anymore. Blond like the hair of every girl I’ve murdered all these years. Through blackouts and through times when the blackouts were permanent, forever thrusting me into a world of actions so vicious I grew proud of my ambivalence toward mankind. O
nly, when I looked at Lilli’s hair now long and bright like the sun my eyes burned with when we stood in those perfect fields that I so clearly did not belong in, I felt a profound and horrible feeling. Guilt. A guilt so massive that I know I will never be able to live with it.
I can’t look at the face of the girl that is meant to save the world and lie to her.
I can’t be in a world where every step I take, every waking fucking second, the rotting bloted maggotinfested corpses of everything I ever led to believe I loved, haunt me. They’re behind my eyes, in my mind, on my lips. I can smell the putrification on my breathe, though I’m the only one who can.
My head hurts. And I don’t understand. I just don’t. Everything was perfect and now that stupid exetensital world of imagini has done something to my mind and I can’t stop it from growing like a black plague of breadmold all over my prefrontal cortex, all through my amygdala and killing all those parts that made me angry, made me strong. There’s nothing there but guilt and sorrow for causing love and ripping it apart. And nobody will ever be able to love me back ever again because I don’t have the perfection in my thoughts that let me contort the world to do whatever I wanted. I’m alone. Finally, I’m the one alone.